


Undone

by chocoCate



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Cock Bondage, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Sensory Deprivation, spider walking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 20:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14723106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocoCate/pseuds/chocoCate
Summary: It begins wordlessly, the minute Squall returns home and closes the door. Letting go of his titles, worries and responsibilities still doesn’t come easily to him. More than removing a mask, it feels like shedding his skin, a long and uncomfortable process. When he thinks about it, it worries him how much SeeDs are involved in his private life, the effort required from him to forget work-related matters, and how, when he manages to do so, he feels too raw.A Squall/Rinoa BDSM play.





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank the lovely [Blackreed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlaCkreed4) for beta-ing this fic and [Tommykaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommykaine/pseuds/Tommykaine). It was their love for femdoms that made this fic happen.  
> It was specifically written for [Lande di fandom](http://www.landedifandom.net/)'s 2018 Badwrong Weeks.

It begins wordlessly, the minute Squall returns home and closes the door. Letting go of his titles, worries and responsibilities still doesn’t come easily to him. More than removing a mask, it feels like shedding his skin, a long and uncomfortable process. When he thinks about it, it worries him how much SeeDs are involved in his private life, the effort required from him to forget work-related matters, and how, when he manages to do so, he feels too raw.

Rinoa doesn’t seem troubled by his concerns. “SeeD is a big part of your life,” she explained, “What matters is that you are striving to improve your life and not letting it define you.”

So, he does what he knows best: he trains himself, just as he has trained for his whole life to be a mercenary.

In spite of that, annoyance has its tentacles all over him today, what with having to manage incapable cadets who decided it would be a good idea to complain to _him_ about the supposed ‘unfairness’ of the SeeD exam, and the towering pile of paperwork he still has to complete and that weighs in his mind. On a normal day, he would have stayed longer in his office to fill all of them and not let them spoil his weekend, but Rinoa made him promise to come home as soon as he was off the clock.

He takes a long deep breath, which does little to calm him, when he sees Rinoa. Her blue dress sways with her every step as she approaches him steadily and greets him with a kiss.

“How are you feeling?” she asks. He knows she wants honesty: there’s no sense in playing, she usually says, if one of them is not having fun. He can stop this now, before it starts, if he doesn’t feel up to it.

“Irritated,” he says, “but I’m fine.”

She nods, and leaves it at that. When he is like this, Squall has a tendency to talk even less than usual or not at all, or lash out angrily to everybody who tries to improve his mood, so Rinoa knows better than to push him now, asking him what happened.

“Is it ok for you to play?”

More than ok. He needs to leave his nervousness behind, to feel he can actually be useful for something without having to mull over it for days, to see an immediate reaction to his efforts. “Yes.”

“Very well.”

Were it one of their first times, she would have remarked that he can call it off whenever he wants, reminded him of their safeword, but now, after a lot of experience, she knows he will do so. He had felt like a failure the first times he used the safeword, but Rinoa was always so proud of him, and made it clear it was ok to do so,therefore he now is more comfortable with that.

They talked after it, understood together what was not ok, and got better together.

(He needs to be very open, and Rinoa needs to trust him to be so - that’s why she had been very reluctant to start playing for a long time,)

“Pager,” she says, reaching out with a decisive gesture that doesn’t leave space for any objection.

He hands it to her with no grace, no love lost for the tiny object and in no mood to make a fuss. As soon as it leaves his hand, however, he feels he can breathe more easily. When he has the pager on him, he feels like he’s chained to it, obliged to respond to anyone who contacts him for one reason or another, whether it’s vital or futile; when Rinoa has it, however, he doesn’t have to pay attention to it. He knows that she will know if a message is important and she will inform him.

Despite it being an agreement they made months and months earlier, this still feels like a big favour she’s doing for him. “Thank you.”

She smiles approvingly. “Go in the bedroom, take everything off. Clean the room before you leave it.”

As he turns, he knows he won’t see the pager for the rest of the evening, but his foul mood hasn’t left him yet.

It gets worse when he sees the bedroom; Rinoa’s clothes are thrown everywhere. He knows he won’t like what will happen to him if he doesn’t follow her orders by the book, so he hesitantly removes all his clothes.

It must look weird, a naked man folding clothes. He can hear Rinoa in the other room on the phone speaking with Selphie, and he wonders what would his friends think if they saw him like this. Commander Squall Leonhart, saviour of the world, bending to the will of Rinoa. He feels uncomfortable, humiliated, yet he continues to clean up, trying not to be bothered by his nudity and the menial task. He concentrates on Rinoa, instead. Wouldn’t he do everything for her?

Gods know how long it takes him until the room is perfectly tidy, clean clothes folded and put in the wardrobe and every scattered item back in its rightful place.

In the meantime he hears Rinoa moving around in the room, and chatter from the TV. He’s not surprised, then, when he finds her on the small sofa of their rather limited living room, watching some program he doesn’t know about.

He waits, standing nude in the middle of the living room, full of nervous energy, looking at her until she notices him. He knows she likes him looking only at her - it’s as though nothing exists but her in his mind. Even though they have played many times already, he still feels the strain to do so, to fight the instinct he acquired through years of training to be constantly aware of his surroundings. He feels in danger, even in his own flat, not allowed to look anywhere but in her direction when he is not doing something else. He has to trust her with his safety.

Finally, Rinoa acknowledges him. She doesn’t look surprised to see him there, which means she knew he was there from the start and decided to ignore him. It’s almost as if he’s an object.

This feeling is amplified when she looks at him with a stare akin to a hunter’s looking at his prey. “Very nice,” she says, and Squall feels goosebumps all over his skin. He wants desperately to hide himself, to be ignored again even it it could mean he has to stand up for hours, just so he can be not in the centre of attentions, but Rinoa takes her time to look at him, television forgotten.

The chatter of whatever is going on is not disturbed for a few long minutes, until she talks again. “Don’t stand there looking pretty,” she orders, although it’s very clear that she wouldn’t mind if he did that - he doesn’t doubt she will make him another time. “Go make me dinner.”

Finally, he would blurt if he were someone else. Instead he tries to quell his temper by going through the practiced motions of cooking without even thinking. He puts on an apron which does little to cover him, but it’s enough to protect him against burns, and gets all the ingredients. They have thought about the menu some time ago, which saves him from having to decide, but he cannot relax, feeling her stare on his back and the loose ends of the apron caressing his butt.

If he’s good, he tries to reason with himself, he will be rewarded. It is easy, cause and effect, no hidden traps, no having to go through decisions over and over in his head. So, he concentrates on doing his best for her - no slumping, no hiding from her, trying to prepare the best meal.

He also takes care of setting the table. He’s under no illusion that she will let him eat with her - he’s her object now, not a person - so he chooses the cutlery only for her. He sets everything with care, chooses the best seat for her, and finally arranges the food on her plate with care. Her, her, only her. By the time he removes his apron and puts the food on the table, Rinoa is seated and ready to eat.

“Heel,” she says, not looking at him, like one would do when commanding an obedient dog. She is certain, he knows, that he will obey her. It gives him goosebumps. “Kneel.”

He might be Angelo, at this point, he thinks as he takes his place on her right and looks at her like a loyal dog. She eats slowly, savouring every single bite. Every now and then, she picks a morsel with her fingers and extends it to him. She’s seated, he’s kneeling on the floor; she is dressed, he is naked; then, if she eats with cutlery, he knows that using his hands to eat will not be tolerated. So he lets himself be fed, embraces the embarrassment he feels to go the extra mile and licks her fingers.

Rinoa smiles, clearly pleased. “Good boy,” she says, and picks up another morsel. It goes on for a while, Rinoa fulfilling his need for food (whether he feels it or not) in exchange for his humiliation. There are no ulterior motives, just her pleasure returned as being taken care of, and he doesn’t have to hide it, not with her.

“Very good,” she says when she’s finished with him. She’s still smiling approvingly, and Squall’s ribcage feels bigger, content as he usually is immediately after completing a project before he has to share it. “Clean everything up, then come to the bedroom.”

She must know he’s still looking at her, even as she gets up and turns her back on him: she walks slowly, swinging her hips. Squall feels hot, his blood pumping hard.

He thinks of her and only her as he obeys. Anticipation makes time go fast, makes him on the brink of incoherency with want, with the menial task only adding to that. He moves on autopilot. What it is waiting for him behind the bedroom’s door is an unknown; he’s not worried or scared as he usually is when confronting it, though. He just wants it, painfully so.

The handle of the bedroom door is cold beneath his hand, but it doesn’t really register in his head. Rinoa is sitting at the desk, reading a book, apparently oblivious of his presence.

“Kneel in front of the bed,” she says, turning a page. She looks comfortable, reading leisurely as if Squall wasn’t nude, hanging from her every single word. It’s humiliating. He loves it.

He feels time passing from every swish of the turning of a page and the slow but sure increase of pain in his knees, but he doesn’t dare to move, hoping she will see how good he is. He feels his chest growing and growing, and dimly wonders what is that lurks behind the breaking point. He doesn’t need to: Rinoa finally breaks the still calmness in the room by closing her book.

She is finally up and she caresses his hair in the same way that she pets Angelo when the dog is being particularly well-behaved (she noticed, then). Squall inhales, trying to calm down his excitement. He has earned a prize: Rinoa sits on the bed, just in front of him and lifts her skirt. She isn’t wearing any underwear. Squall’s head is spinning.

“Suck,” she orders, and he doesn’t hesitate to comply. It has taken him a long time to be marginally comfortable with this act, let alone learning to be good, and he still doesn’t like it, but this is what she wants. He’s an object now, just a means to an end, her end; the certainty of it is comforting, as he doesn’t have to be cautious. He’s Rinoa’s dog, and he will obey to her every order.

Still, in this position he doesn’t know where exactly to put his hands, so he awkwardly places them on her legs. Rinoa immediately pulls his hair, just enough that her message is clear. “No, bad boy!” Her tone is the same she uses to scold Angelo, firm and disapproving. She points to the ground. “On all fours, like a good dog.”

He is Squall Leonhart. He’s a SeeD, a commander, a hero, yet she makes him feel tiny and worthless when she treats him like that. He loves it.

He will be punished if he doesn’t comply to the best of his abilities, and he’s always been an overachiever; that is why, despite everything, he licks and sucks and penetrates her with his tongue with the same drive and precision with which he does everything. Rinoa hums and moans, pets him and pulls his hair, using him to reach her orgasm.

He accompanies her through it, lick her clean when she orders him to. He swallows obediently, even if he cannot repress cringing. She notices it immediately.

“Bad boy!” He will be punished now, he knows it. She rummages through the drawers of the desk, taking a strong pair of leather manacles and throws them in front of him. “Put them on,” she says harshly. He hates the feel of leather around his wrists, but he knows he will hate more what is in store for him if he does not comply by the time Rinoa finishes searching for God knows what. So, he sits on his feet and does it with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

She finally turns with a padlock and a leather blindfold. Her expression is all business, her movements bare to the minimum as she lock the manacles behind his back with the padlock and puts the blindfold over his eyes.

In the darkness, his first priority is to keep his breath steady. He already feels his heart beating faster, just a span under tachycardia. He can feel the texture and softness of the much used leather even more now, and it bring his mind back to electric shots and burned skin in the tallest floor of the D-district prison, when he hoped his death would come soon because it would mean the torture would stop.

But no, he’s with Rinoa now, and she won’t hurt him. She won’t, because he told her he wouldn’t like it, he repeats on and on to himself. completely oblivious to the sounds around him of Rinoa still moving in the room.

Then, he feels cold hands around his penis. “Be still, and I’ll give you something good,” says Rinoa, adjusting what he’s sure is a cock ring around him. He has an inkling now about what she’s thinking of, and her words sound like a wonderful promise.

Rinoa’s voice takes him out of his memories, and the uncomfortableness around his genitals will keep it at that. A word from him, he remembers, and all of this will stop - but he doesn’t want it to stop now.

He feels her moving out of his senses’ reach. He’s alone. He’s blind, tied, uncomfortable. The ring is an alien feeling, a pressure where he’s not used to feel it, much akin to be choked. Yet, he likes it. He likes reveling in this sensation knowing he’s safe and sound, that there is no enemy about to take advantage of him. He can be weak - not only physically bound and unable to react, but also allowing himself to submit and enjoying it - and, he recognises it now, there is strength in that.

He lets his thoughts revolve around Rinoa, lets himself be completely dependent on her. Her pleasure is his, her every wish is his command, so he waits as patiently as he can until she desires to have her way with him. He lets himself get lost in it, every second alone in the darkness turning into the realization he is not commander Squall Leonhart, but her object, disposable and at her mercy.

Then, he feels something. It’s feather-light, a sensation so delicate on his skin that his battle hardened body wouldn’t normally feel it. From the back of his neck it travels slowly down his back, giving him goosebumps. It’s the same sensation he feels when he sees Rinoa warm and soft, naked in their bedroom after taking a shower. He can hear his breaths already, a little restrained as he tries not to react to the sensation.

The touch reaches the small of his back, then goes up again, now not following the straight path of his spine, but moving in a random pattern, tickling the scar left by the ice javelin. “Rinoa?” he asks, suddenly needing the reassurance it’s her.

“Sssh,” he hears, in a consoling manner, her warm breath near his ear, tickling his neck in a way he didn’t know could be this pleasing. “Relax, dog.”

He does it so quickly it might be a reflex. The sensation travels still, and it’s surprising how much he feels it, how much he likes it. It doesn’t touch what would be sensible areas, staying at a safe distance from his nipples, the insides of his thighs, his genitals, his neck. He feels what maybe are fingers lightly resting upon his arms, his pecs, his abs, once even at his feet, and even so, pression builds in his cock, constrained in the ring Rinoa chose for him.

“Don’t hold back,” he is distantly aware of her saying, now realizing how far reality and not caring a bit. “Tell me how it feels.”

“I-” he starts immediately, but pauses. Normally he doesn’t talk much, and now he’s at loss for words to use to explain this. Yet, she asked it from him, so he forces whatever stray thought he has out. “It’s good, and I don’t know why, I have never felt like this-”

Suddenly, Rinoa’s lips are on his neck, licking and sucking, and he doesn’t repress a groan, all thoughts flown away. Her stray hair tickles him, while her fingers lightly caress his sides. “Aaah- I- Gods, I have never felt so sensitive before, why is this-”

He rambles like a madman, far too gone and yet only at the start of this, but too drunk on it to care anymore. Rinoa evokes this sensations like a director would control his play, deliberately, with care, until he cannot think of anything but them and how he wants more. Only then, she moves to his nipples, pinching them to make him groan and then her hand is on his inner thigh. She teases him, caressing him up and down, every time getting a maddening millimeter closer to his penis. Every time, at the moment when she might take the leap and touch him, his head gets lighter until he realizes he forgot to breathe, just when her hand slips away again.

He can think of this and only this, imagining it in his mind, trying to give an image to his sensations. In the darkness of the blindfold, he sees Rinoa in front of him like a mirage, a smile on her lips, sitting on the bed and leaning down towards him like an owner - he’s just missing a collar. He might even bark.

He feels his cock about to touch his abs, warm and humid, almost fully erect even if it’s still left untouched. He must look debauched himself, sweaty and gone, just because of her touch on his now sensitive body.

“What would you do for me?” she asks.

He doesn’t even think of his answer, his mind far too gone to manage it. “Everything.” He realizes he has spoken only when he feels Rinoa’s glorious fingers on his cock, meaning maybe that his answer is good. A strangled moan is all he can manage now, his muscles trembling with the simple contact.

She touches his cock like she touched him everywhere else, lightly, caressing it with slow strokes of the tip of her finger, as someone inexperienced or even a virgin might. He knows it’s not like that, though. What Rinoa is doing is an intended way to torture him slowly, an effective punishment for his mistakes. Yet, he loves it, he loves the way he feels the pleasure grow until it is not enough. He’s a starved man, and she’s offering him only small morsels of a full-course meal just outside of his reach but within his view.

“I’m sorry,” he says, desperate and honest. “I’m really, really sorry!”

“Good boy.”

Her fingers suddenly become her entire hand on him, fully stroking him. The pressure in his cock is growing stronger, but it’s better now. Pleasure spreads through all of him, his muscles surrender to it and make him fold in half, his spine no longer straight.

He doesn’t hear himself moan wantonly nor see what Rinoa’s expression might be, he doesn’t feel anything on his dry tongue, not even her taste, and the smell of sex doesn’t reach his nostrils. He is lost in her touch, all the other sensations forgotten in favour of his small universe of pleasure. If she asked who he was, he wouldn’t be able to answer.

Her strokes are quicker now, building a tempo that can only lead to his finish. He feels the pressure in his cock growing until it is too much for him to bear, yet the orgasm doesn’t come.

 _The cock ring_ , is his only clear though.

He moans pitifully as she continues to stroke him mercilessly, accompanying her hand movements with his hips, searching his release like a wild animal.

“What do you want?” she asks, her voice a stark contrast to his animalistic cries.

In between his ragged breaths, he manages to answer, “Come, I- I wanna come!”

“Then beg for it, dog.”

He’s far too gone to be stopped by his pride. He pleads with no shame, his humiliation forgotten in his quest to get his release. “I wanna come, please, please, please, let me come, Rinoa-”

“Mistress.” she corrects him, stopping in her motions.

Normally, he would have balked. He has never called her mistress in their games before - they both couldn’t bring themselves to take that additional step yet, what with Rinoa still feeling a little uncomfortable in the role of domme and him not ready to add that final piece of humiliation. Now, though, he cannot care less.

“Please, mistress!”

She resumes stroking him immediately, in time with his pleads, but each stroke is now torture. The pressure is not relenting, and his restraints pull harshly as he tries desperately to _do_ something, all control over his body lost. “Please, let me come, mistress!”

“Kiss my feet, then,” she says, letting him go.

He’s her dog, her obedient slave, half-mad with lust and desire. There is no Squall Leonhart in him to rebel or resist, so he just puts his head on the floor, his naked ass in the air, and searches for her feet blindly. He is desperate enough to find and kiss them both multiple times, from her toes to her ankles, covering as much as he can with his lips. Then he licks them like the dog he is, grateful that she’s allowing him even the chance to earn his orgasm.

Only then Rinoa stops him. “Very well. Straighten up.”

He might cry as her hands are on his cock again, removing the ring but not touching him. The pause in her stroking has reduced the pressure in his cock enough that he doesn’t come immediately, but he still feels a little better. He hears her moving in the room, maybe disposing the cock ring, then her hand is finally on him again.

The build-up is stronger than he has ever felt before, and his resistances are minimum, so it doesn’t take long to feel on the verge of his orgasm. “Thank you, mistress,” he says with feeling just as he can’t take it anymore.

He has never felt an orgasm this strong.

He doesn’t know how long after that he comes back to his senses. He feels boneless, his head nestled between Rinoa’s shoulder and her neck. In between breaths, Squall realizes he can see again, the fabric of Rinoa’s dress dimly illuminated in the bedroom’s light. She’s moving, fiddling with the manacles until his newly-freed hands limp by the floor.

“Hey Squall?” Her tone is different now, sweet and light, her inflection unsure.

He grunts, too exhausted to talk.

“I know you’re tired-” that doesn’t even begin to cover how he feels, “but I need you to move. You’re heavy, you know. Let’s move to the bed, shall we?”

As he gets up, his knees feel bruised, which is annoying yet something he can live with. His wrists are bruised too, proof that he fought the restraints more than he realized, but the skin didn’t break. He’s spent, but fine. When he looks at her, he realizes that Rinoa too is taking stock of his damages.

“I’m fine,” he says as he sits on the bed.

Rinoa smiles mischievously, as she sits next to him and takes his hand. “Fine like before or fine?”

When she looks at him like this, mirth shining in her eyes, Squall cannot suppress a smile of his own. He’s not irritated anymore, a pool of deep satisfaction rests in his chest. “Better than fine,” he amends.

“So I take you liked it,” she says. When he nods, she continues “Thank gods it was worth it, you looked so fine I was about to go down on you and ruin everything.”

He doubts she could ruin anything, yet he stays silent. He doesn’t have the strength to acknowledge her compliment now, but he will be sure to repay her later, after a good rest. “It seemed like I was in the D-district prison, when you handcuffed me-”

Rinoa looks like she might interrupt him with some joke - something like “you handcuffed you” - but she stays silent, listening to him intently.

“-but I got over it quickly. Your voice helped.”

She smiles. “That’s good. You were great, you know.”

That is nice to hear. Even though Squall didn’t really doubt it, he feels reassured, in a way. Maybe, he thinks, telling her how he felt has reassured her too.

“Wanna sleep?” she asks.

That certainly he does. As he lies in the bed and is immediately spooned by Rinoa, he feels like everything is right again in the world.


End file.
